


White Letters Make Painful Words

by Fullmetal450



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Avengers as a support group, Broken Hearts, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of terminal illness, Multi, Never meeting a soulmate, Somewhat, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:18:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetal450/pseuds/Fullmetal450
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every soulmate story has a beautiful happy ending. Sometimes you never even meet them before you have to say goodbye. Sometimes you meet them and have to watch them fade away. Sometimes you feel like people don't understand. And sometimes you find the ones who do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Letters Make Painful Words

It’s not a coincidence that they all met.

They each had reasons for being there, at that restaurant, waiting for a man who never came. One by one, they came in and asked for Nick Fury’s table, and were led to the back, a private room with way too many settings.

None of them really wanted to stay and have lunch with these strangers, people they had nothing in common with. They do, though, because there must be some reason they’ve been set up for some surprise blind group date.

A sleeve slips and a wrist is exposed, white writing on it instead of the usual black. Natasha is immediately tense and defensive, until she’s met with understanding looks instead of pitying smiles. Ah. That’s why they’re here.

* * *

 

Steve never knew her. Margaret Elizabeth Carter’s name had been tattooed in black over his heart since he was born. It’d been there since he was a tiny baby, black cursive stark against his pale skin.

He dreamt of a Margaret, wondered if she went by some cute nickname like Maggie. He wondered if she’d want some skinny artist from Brooklyn as her soulmate.

Through every sickness, every punch from some asshole who didn’t like his smart mouth, he wondered if this was how he’d meet her, or if she’d lovingly call him an idiot and patch up his wounds or bully him back into bed when he had pneumonia again. He always had a feeling that she’d throw some fists with him, though.

Bucky called him a romantic sap, and maybe he was, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if she’d take his name, or if they would hyphenate, or if she wanted him to take hers. He’d be open to the idea. He’d be open to anything that Miss Margaret Elizabeth Carter wanted to make her happy.

He’d always subscribed to the idea that soulmates just _happened_ , that going out and looking for your other half would just lead to more stress than was needed. It was meant to be, after all. He could wait.

Then, on the pale morning of February 5th, 2002, at age 20, he woke up to see that the black ink had turned an impossibly pale white while he slept.

He cried for hours, perusing the news and obituaries. He never found her, couldn’t find the one person out there whose soul matched his own so much that her name had to make itself known right over his heart. And now he’d never be able to see her.

He slept fitfully that night, and for many nights after. He never talked to anyone about it, but he bought a pretty locket and had someone copy the script in black ink. He kept that on his chest instead, a reminder of the hope he’d had for them. It was much nicer to look at than some barely there lines on his chest that just spoke of hopeless possibilities.

* * *

 

Her dreams were of a strong man, brash and willful but good. James was a common name. Thank god she had more than that.

James Buchanan Barnes had been on the skin of her wrist since she was born. She didn’t know her birthday, only the year, but she’d been told that she came in with it, a soulmate already out there in the world waiting for her.

There were too many blank faced children in the orphanage, too many adults who looked away before even bare necessities were met. They were never told about soulmates, but it was impossible to turn away from them. He became her solace, the idea of the romantic soulmates that you saw in operas and movies and books. They were everywhere, and she wanted that for herself.

A part of her knew he wasn’t in Russia, not with a name like that, so she didn’t look. She went through her life, fought to get away from her childhood and be a ballerina, until her teacher became too heavy-handed, began to push too far. She was strong and clever, she could find other ways to live. She could find James, see if he was doing any better than her, no family and nothing to her name except a few outfits and a complicated history.

America called to her. She scraped together money for a plane ticket, an apartment, and a few days of job searching, and she left at sixteen for New York City.

She was in the air for two hours before it happened. She reached up to take her drink from the flight attendant, and saw the flash of white.

No one ever told her she wouldn’t feel him go, that there would be no pain when she lost the person she was supposed to spend her life with. She went numb, and she’s not sure she’s ever stopped being that way.

Her soulmate dies, and she’s left in a strange country to pick up the pieces of herself that she only held onto because she hoped they would fit with his.

* * *

 

Donald was born without a name. It isn’t so rare that everyone freaks out, but it’s a topic of morbid interest.

He’s meant to die with no other half.

His mother tried to tell him he was already whole, and that he could find true love the way people used to, reckless and risky, with fumbling and broken hearts. He smiles and nods along, but lies and tells everyone that his name is in a private place, and that he doesn’t want to share it. He thinks of his brother, three names in various spots all over his body. It’s difficult not to be jealous.

He lives his life, though, goes to college and then medical school. He goes by Thor because it’s more amusing, because sometimes his own name makes him think of how lonely he’ll be, how any relationship he pursues won’t be destined by the universe. No one has Donald Theodore Blake on their skin.

Apparently someone does, though, and her name is Jane Foster. Was Jane Foster. A woman named Darcy knocks on his apartment door, sobbing because they’ve been looking for him for almost a year, finding him just in time for her car to be hit by a drunk driver. She was only a few states away from him, so close. He goes to the funeral and finally realizes what it means when he sees her in the coffin and in her pictures, beautiful with a brilliance that has now gone quiet. She was smart and kind, but she’s never going to smile for him, no matter how badly they both wanted each other.

He abandoned medical school, left his family with only a note. He lives with Darcy, and she tells him about Jane, his beautiful love who he wanted but never expected. He sees the tattoo, his name in messy writing on the curve of her hip. He imagines making jokes about always being on her side, and sobs over a cold headstone, mourning a life that could’ve been if he’d only known what he was looking for.

He gets reckless and drunk with Darcy, who believed Jane was a different kind of soulmate for her, and they found themselves at a tattoo parlor in the late hours. He gives way too much money to a man so he can have Jane Foster’s signature carved into his side, taken from some form. It isn’t closure, not even close, but it’s something.

* * *

 

Clint thought Phillip James Coulson was the most average name ever, but his middle name is Francis, so he has to forgive Phil for the totally normal name stamped on the back of his hand. It’s hard to stay mad at someone when they’ve been one of the only two good constants in your life.

He spent his early childhood fantasizing about a handsome guy with a sweet smile and kind eyes to take him away from Harold’s swinging fists and harsh words. He was too young to know what the words mean, but he figured out later that it was about the man’s name on the back of his hand. It was the one big thing his mom fought back about, covering Clint’s ears, even if he could barely hear anyway. She told him it sounded like the name of a good person, and helped him come up with interesting ideas on how they’d meet. He was only a kid, though, so most of his ideas were based on movies.

He dreamt about Phil when everything became too much in every foster home and told Ms. Dianne all about it. She told him about her own soulmate, spun tales of a real, honest love, better than what his parents had, and things were getting better, until they weren’t.

He didn’t dream about Phil for a while after that, too angry at the world that took too much from someone with too little to give.

He dreamt about Phil when he was ten and they took off for the circus. He wondered what his soulmate would think of him, sweeping up after horses and drunks, just trying to find a way to survive. When archery became his new escape, he made each shot with pride, not for Phil, but for himself and finding a new home. Things weren’t better, probably wouldn’t be for a long time, but they were something.

He didn’t think about Phil when he was performing. He knew he’d lose focus if he did. He didn’t know until he was cleaning up and washing off the sweat and makeup, the concealer on the back of his hand so no one could see Phil’s name. He thought it wouldn’t come off at first, couldn’t stop frowning and wondering what the problem was.

He found a flashlight and stared at it, the white, and all he could think was _no no not him too_ until he cried his eyes out because Phillip James Coulson was gone and he’d completely missed it. He was only fifteen, and he’d already lost the love of his life that he’d never actually know.

He never covered it up again, and most people didn’t notice it anyway, something he’d wanted until it happened. He pushed on, with no more dreams about a sappy future. Phil wouldn’t be coming. 

* * *

 

The world knew it when Tony was born. His weight, full name, everything was published in a newspaper the next day.

Everything except the names.

Where people with no names were only somewhat rare, and a remnant of the past, people with more than one name were very rare. (Thor tells Tony about his brother, about how he hid them. Tony knows a lot about hiding names.)

Howard and Maria didn’t care for soulmates, they weren’t what mattered to the company, too much risk for no assured benefit. They told him to pick any name, any female name, except for the one on his chest. They told him to forget the man’s name written there, too.

So he found the most common woman's name in the country and fucked every girl with that name, ran from every James he met, and when people came forth again and again with fake tattoos, he laughed and said he didn’t believe them, or played along for the night. He was Anthony Edward Stark, he didn't need anyone to be the other thirds of his soul. He was big enough and loud enough for two. For three.

He continued believing it when he finally cracked, Howard and Maria and Jarvis all long buried, Obie on his way to prison. He finally looked for them, found them, almost went to see them. They’d already met, knew each other, listed the other as a partner on social media. He wanted to ask why they didn’t come to him, when one picture showed that they both clearly had his name on them. A nice picture at the beach, smiles on both of their faces, his scrawled messy handwriting on the skin of a pale, beautiful woman and the most handsome man he’d ever seen in his life. He’s so ready to just give in and go find them when it happens.

He’d just fucked some woman and he could see his name tattooed down her spine, and she didn’t even wait for the swelling to go down before she came to see him. He gave her a shot, though, and when he went to shower alone, he saw that the makeup had come off and neither of them had noticed because there was no black.

Because while he had his dick in a stranger who wanted money and fame, Virginia Potts and James Rupert Rhodes were on their way to Malibu, and the plane failed and so many people died and his soulmates were among them.

Because he hid so long and so desperately that they found each other and tried so hard to find him and he fucked over these beautiful people with beautiful souls who probably would have made him feel like a person again.

He never told anyone, because those families don’t need that in their lives. He seals himself away because all he wants to do is claw out a cavity in his chest so he can’t see their names and he doesn’t feel this ache anymore. 

* * *

 

Bruce is the only one of them who ever met his soulmate. Joseph was a bright light in his life, a business student at in interdepartmental mixer. They were young and both went by their middle names, thinking they had all the time in the world to find soulmates. It all accidentally fell together in the way that people expect it to.

Their first kiss tasted like tequila and wine and Bruce was grossed out before he thought that he could kiss this man forever. They date, content to spend their time together until they figured it out and laughed themselves sick. Whenever they kissed after that, he felt a phantom tingle in the bottom of his foot where he had Stanley Joseph Singer written into his skin. It’s black, and he doesn’t have any interest in feet, but he lost count of how many times he rubbed his thumb over Robert Bruce Banner written on the bottom of Joseph’s foot.

He spent the next ten years in love with the man meant for him, wishing he found him sooner but knowing they met at the perfect time. He was the one who made sure Bruce was safe and sound, and that his anger never hurt anyone. Bruce in turn did every little thing he could to hold on to Joseph’s heart. Joseph always called him a fool. “You’ve already got it forever.” They live in a sweet little apartment in New York, visit Joseph’s parents and Rebecca’s grave whenever they can. They play with the idea of a cat, of children, of a lot of things about their future.

He’s never forgotten the numbness of that trip to the doctor where they finally put a name to all of Joseph’s dizzy spells and migraines.

Inoperable brain tumor.

He’s not an idiot, knows they’re on borrowed time now. His ears are ringing, Joseph is crying, and Bruce is numb because time is running out all too soon.

For a few months, they danced with depression and debt and the idea of hope, and all Joseph ever asked from him is that he not kill himself after Joseph’s gone. He felt like a chastised teenager and promised, and watched the love of his life slip away one quiet, cold night.

Bruce still visits Joseph's grave every month and gives the tombstone a kiss. He leaves flowers he never liked until he saw how much Joseph loved them. He never looks at the bottom of his foot. He's never actually seen the words in white. He never wants to. 

* * *

 

The ones who haven't seen their soulmates, Tony immediately jumps forward to help them. He tracks them down, finds their graves, and their families. No comes forward with the idea of a trip to see them all together. They're still different people, and they don't trust each other. All of them have spent so much time alone.

They exchange numbers, though. Share information, catch cabs home together. They've stolen each other's food during the meal and their burdens feel lighter. Everyone pitied them all for so long, so it's different to speak only to people who have gone through the same thing. Nick will forever deny it being his idea, but if he’s pressed, he’ll mention being tired of listening to them all bitch and moan. Press any harder than that, and he’ll say nothing but think of an old friend who died too soon, a promise made in a hospital to look out for his soulmate.

They’re all more social people now. Clint, Steve, and Natasha are sparring partners, Donald goes back to school, Clint has a date with a magician of all things, and Bruce and Tony somehow manage to calm each other enough to form slightly healthier habits. They meet often, whether together or separately, because they’ve all been too lonely for too long, and there’s something to be said for shared life experiences.


End file.
